


I Know I Shouldn't Think It But I Do Anyway

by orphan_account



Series: Give it up, give it up now [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood Play, Date Rape, Eyes, First Person, Gore, M/M, Maiming, Manipulation, Murder, Panic Attacks, Peter Hale Appreciation Week, Podfic Welcome, Rape, Serial Killer, Serial Killer Peter, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, britishisms, dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9366176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "I would have died if I kept it up. There was only so much Peter would have taken before I became too much of a risk. Too unlike the fantasy he had bought into. I’m living in the shadow of what he wants me to be. Trying my hardest to not live it out too perfectly."The prequel to my Serial Killer!Peter fic & entry to Peter Appreciation Week (Monday theme: Gore/Dark )





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, lots of you said you were interested in a continuation of this story and I decided to go backwards before I go forwards. So here's a prequel.
> 
>  
> 
> **This fic works better if you read the other part first.**
> 
>    
> It'll work as a stand alone/if read first, but for best effects, read the other one first. 
> 
> See end (spoilers) for thorough warnings.

If I think about it, I think I saw Peter the first time in a convenience store. It's a small little half memory. I remember being on the phone and dropping it into a fridge when trying to find a bag of reduced curly fries. It was a whole to do. One of the shelf stackers was glaring at me as a I dove in after it.

 

I was always like that before. Clumsy. Throwing my limbs around. Not thinking.

 

_I'm not like that now._

 

I remember someone laughing, and plucking my phone out from some frozen peas. They seemed nice. A friendly face that was on my side against the mean store worker. I gushed thanks and started my conversation up again with my dad. Flashing the stranger a grateful smile.

 

_I'm pretty sure that friendly stranger was Peter._

 

* * *

 

 

How we _really_ met was in the laundromat . Late at night, probably gone 3am. I always did my laundry at that time. Less competition and I could bring a book with me and sit and read some of my college work. The hum of machines like white noise. It was peaceful. I liked it there. A place of respite.

 

It was one of those places where everything is bolted down and there's no attendant. It was what I liked about the place.

 

_I regret it. I feel stupid now. I was so stupid._

 

What makes me think that I saw Peter in the convenience store before, is that I had shopped there that night too. To buy some detergent and snacks for my late night laundry run. When I had got to my machine to load up the drum and pour in the soap powder I couldn't find it. It was just missing from my bag. I couldn't work out if I had dropped it, just imagined that I had picked up from the shelf, or that I had just left it at the store.

 

But I was always doing shit like that, so I wasn't particularly suspicious.

 

_I should have been suspicious._

 

But luckily - _luckily_ \-  for me there was someone else doing laundry that night.

 

He was attractive, that's what I remember thinking. That it wasn't the worst thing in the world that I had to approach him. He had this wicked wry smile that curled up at one side.

 

I was trying my best to be charming. I didn't throw myself at him, but I wanted his attention. He looked so smug and up himself, but he had a nice voice. Dark and deep, the sort of voice that didn't need to shout. And he said kind things, smiled at everything I said. I remember feeling like he was paying attention to me, like what I was saying was witty.

 

_Peter has always had a way about him that makes you feel like the whole world has gone dark when he looks at you. Like the full weight of his attention is enough to make everything else dim. Like you don't want to look else where... I didn't realise then that one day I'd be too scared to look away._

 

"So, what is you Mr. Nice Suits and expensive shoes doing in a crappy New York laundromat like this at three in the morning?"

 

I was leaning against his machine, the steady vibrations against my ass. It felt good. I was picturing him fucking me against it. I doubt I would have really gone through with it. The son of a cop doesn't get caught with that kind of public indecency. Not that I kept all my hobbies legal, this just felt like asking for it.

 

He gave that grin again. The one that looked like he knew what I was thinking. Like he could know everything about me if he so wanted to.

 

_He wasn't wrong._

 

 _"_ Even nice suits can't keep my machine from breaking."

 

"Don't nice suits keep nice by going to the dry cleaner?"

 

I remember saying it so clearly, because he looked at me like I was _so clever._ I didn't know why, what was so effective about my words. But I opened for him under the praise.

 

_I had probably worked out a chink in his story. I've thought about this day so many times. Held it up to the light, looked for holes. Upwards, backwards. Inside out. How did this happen? How could this happen to me? What did I do wrong? How could I have gotten out of this?_

 

I was so happy when he asked if I wanted to get dinner some time. I felt like it was a sign that New York was a good decision for me. I'd only been there a few months, and it was pretty lonely. But here I was, meeting attractive strangers.

 

It all happened so quickly. We were going to go to a restaurant. One I had picked even. I felt like I was so in control of what had happened. I had wanted him, I had pursued him.

 

At no point had it felt like he was leading us anywhere. Everything was so casual.

 

_I know better now. He's meticulous. Planned. Every act is planned out in advance. A back up plan. An alternative plan. A get out plan. A ‘you thought this was your idea but really it was mine all along’ plan._

 

He just looked really nice, in a soft jumper. Something had ran over in his day.  I had told him the night previous that I'd be back tomorrow afternoon to wash my sheets. For some reason I had thought saying that was sexy. We hadn't traded numbers and were planning to meet at the pizza place I'd picked, so he had had to swing by laundry place to catch me.  To tell me to change the times to give him a chance to get home and change.

 

He'd just looked so nice in that soft burgundy jumper. I felt like I had accidentally seen a bit of the _real_ Peter. The man behind the suit. The guy he pretended he wasn't when he met people. His hair was messy. He had a bag of vegetables and bread from the local market. He looked so nice, genuine.

 

_Stupid. So very stupid._

 

I was looking at the bag of vegetables, a baguette sticking out the bag.

 

"That looks nice," it had been my idea. I was so sure it was my idea.

 

_Nothing Peter does is impulsive._

 

"Have you been to the Chelsea market?"

 

"No, I've heard of it though."

 

"It's a shame it's closing now, another time we can go. You can pick out some ingredients and I'll cook them for you." He had such a nice smile, he looked so human. His grin was genuine, his grin wasn't so smug this time.

 

It was my idea.

 

_I know what Peter's genuine smile is like now. And it isn't soft._

 

"We could do that tonight. I'm sure you've picked out something nice."

 

It was my idea.

 

_It wasn't my idea._

 

* * *

 

  


I didn't think about the fact there was no signal in the car. I didn't think about the fact that there was no signal in the stairway. I didn't think about the fact there was no signal in his living room.

 

I did comment on the overkill security on his door.

 

"Wow, scared of thieves much?"

 

He gave me that intense grin again, "you're showing how new to New York you are again."

 

"I think I can handle it."

  


He made rabbit turn over. I hadn't eaten much rabbit in my time, it reminded me of Chris Argent. The hunter would bring home game and Allison would bring it with her for lunch at highschool.

 

"If I had known I was cooking for you, I would have put on a stew. But braised rabbit pie is quick and tasty."

 

"I'm pretty much stealing your dinner here, so you make what's good for you."

 

I loved kitchens, other people's kitchens in particular. Peter didn't seem to mind that I was opening all his cupboards, narrating Peter's choices to place things.

 

"Why do you have even more spoons over here?"

 

"That's where I make my coffee."

 

"You have no idea how lucky you are to have this much draw space. And you waste it on spoons."

 

"What would you put in it?"

 

"I don't know... porn. Avocados. My diploma. Something better than spoons."

 

Peter had a nice house. Sure it was in a crappy bit of New York, but who could afford to live somewhere nicer when even the bad bits of New York cost a fortune? It was the awkward top side apartment of the building. Over the elevator which stopped at the floor below. He was on the top floor which had its own staircase. This made it bigger than the other ones in the building and with only one shared wall. That must have made it more expensive. Like a penthouse suit. You didn't feel like you were in a building full of other people.

 

"So, where do you work?"

 

"How do you know I work, and I'm not an eternal bachelor?"

 

"Because no one who has that much money to own an apartment in New York and not work, would pick this neighbourhood. No offense."

 

Peter was smiling at me. It was just so exciting, I get in close. Share some of Peter's air. I felt small in comparison to the man, like Peter could pick me up and throw me over his shoulder. Drag me away to the bedroom.

 

_He could. He would. He will._

 

The food is delicious. The meat is gamey and rich, and the sweet lattice pastry is light. The meat is so soft that I can't stop moaning as I swallow it, creamy rings of buttered leeks as a perfect compliment.

 

I drink a lot of red wine.

 

We're drinking from carafes. There's four of them on the table, none of them big enough to hold a whole bottle. Peter had brought them to the table just before the food. Pinot noir.

 

_I'd already had two glasses of white._

 

"1990, 1998, 2005, and last spring," he pointed at each of the dainty jugs. My eyes flash him a smile when he says 1990, a year off from my birth year.

 

"No 1991?"

 

"No, bad year for grapes."

 

"I was born 1991."

 

"Ah, a good year for dates then."

 

_The only thing Peter didn't plan was his words. He probably needed to be that quick witted to keep all his plans together. Sometimes even now he'll turn a phrase and I'll catch myself smiling. It makes things messier that way, the way he likes it._

 

I had laughed and laughed and laughed.

 

* * *

 

 

“Wow, am I drinking a lot?”

Peter had just refilled one of the jugs. It’s the sweet spring wine, the one I liked best.

 

“Maybe, you seem surprisingly sober. I didn’t think to stop you.”

 

“Oh I’m awful with alcohol. I take a lot of adderall, it messes with my ability to feel intoxicated.”

 

“Oh really? Just alcohol?”

 

“Drugs too, I found out that the hard way when I went to the dentist.”

 

“The local anaesthetic didn’t work?”

 

“Nope. I pretty much screamed the place down.”

 

_When I think back I paint Peter’s face as annoyed, or worried. It gives me a kick, to think that I was messing with his plan. That I wasn’t going along with what was supposed to happen. He probably didn’t look any different however, he had something up his sleeve. He always does. And it all worked out for him in the end._

“So, you don’t feel drunk at all?”

 

“Not really, my inhibitions take a little walk out the window though”. I winked at him. I was flirting with him. I wanted to have sex with him. I wanted him to like me.

 

“Tell me, what does Stiles with no inhibitions look like?”

 

_I think this is when things started to change._

 

“I only really ever got properly drunk once, enough that I made some seriously bad decisions.”

 

“What did you do? Egg someone’s house, break into school?” He was teasing me.

 

“Haha, _no._ That stuff was like a normal Friday night for me.”

 

“Oh really.”

 

“Yeah, _this night_ …” I’d paused. I hadn’t really told anyone about this before. Probably a sign I was drunk, or whatever drugs Peter had plied me with were actually working on some level.

 

“Oh don’t hold out on me now.”

 

“Okay, okay. So, my dad’s a cop, a Sheriff actually, did I tell you that?”

 

“I’m pretty sure I would have remembered if you had.”

 

_Maybe I should have stressed how much of a cop he was. Maybe I should have told him that dad knew where I was. That it’d be insane to murder a cop’s kid. To kidnap one. I wish I could remember Peter’s face. Did he look scared? Fuck, I hope he was in that second._

 

“Well anyway, I grew up in Beacon Hills,” Peter’s eyebrows had bounced up into his hairline, “oh, you know it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh, have you been there?”

 

Peter looked like he was choosing his words carefully. At the time I thought he was trying not to sound weird. You know, one of those people who on dates just agree with everything whoever they’re with is saying. It was the sort of thing I thought about. In truth, he was probably trying to decide how much information to give me.

 

“I actually lived there once.”

 

“That’s so cool! We might know people!”

 

“Very possibly.”

 

“Wow, okay, so you might remember what I’m talking about then. Do you remember when that girl Laura Hale died?”

 

_I didn’t know Peter’s second name._

 

“I heard about it.”

 

_I didn’t realise what kind of fire I was playing with._

 

“Okay. Wow, I really can’t believe I’m telling you this. But whatever, in for a penny right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“Well, I had this police radio. That I mostly listened to to keep up with my dad. Anyway, so I was drinking. A lot. I had gotten through the majority of my dad’s liquor cabinet. It’s a long story why… Okay, it was the anniversary of my mother’s death. But whatever, that’s not what I’m talking about here. You okay with me just sticking with the story?” I was rambling. I should have realised how drunk I was.

 

“Please do.”

 

“And I heard reports of this girl’s body being found in the woods. You know the preserve? It was on the east side, not far from my house. I could probably go on foot.”

 

“And you went?”

 

“Yeah. I don’t even really know why.”

 

“You were… Curious.”

 

“Yeah. Something about… Knowing what death looks like. I never saw my mom’s body, and like… This girl had been _murdered_. I was curious.”

 

“What did it look like?”

 

_I know him now. He’s asked me this so many times. A body in the bath, in the kitchen, in the bed. What does it look like Stiles?_

 

“Bloody. She still looked beautiful, but in a really… Pathetic kind of way. Like all the things that are supposed to make you beautiful were gone now.”

 

I had alarm bells ringing in my head. There was something so intense about the conversation. The way Peter was looking at me. He looked silent. The kind of silence that covers up a lot of noise. It felt sexy almost, like we were flirting again, even though that’s not what we were doing.

 

“Did you touch her?”

 

“Yeah.. She was cold, and stiff. I was scared, you know? Like, really scared. Looking back I probably should have been scared that whatever did this to her could do it to me-”

 

“-maybe they would have.”

 

_He would have._

 

“But mostly because of how alive I felt. You don’t realise what it means to be breathing, thinking and moving, until you see someone who isn’t.”

 

“Powerful.”

 

“Yeah, powerful stuff. I had adrenaline up to my ears.”

 

“Do you still think about it?”

 

I nodded. I had realised by then that I was drunk.

 

“Wow, okay. I am… Not sober. I think it’s finally caught up with me. Where’s your bathroom?”

 

I don’t remember anything else from that night.

 

_But I remember every other night since._

 

* * *

 

  


I know we fucked that night. I woke up the next day with the bruises and ache of sex. I wasn’t scared when I woke up, it almost made sense. ‘Fuck yeah, I managed to fuck him. What a shame I can’t remember it.’

 

It was probably the most danger I have ever been in with Peter, that first night.

 

He hadn’t decided to keep me yet, at that point I was just supposed to be another victim. He probably had knives in the bed with us, trying to pick where to stab me. How many times had he thought about it and then decided not to? How close did I get to dying?

 

_Would it have been easier if I had just died in that bed?_

 

I’ve wanted to ask him, but I’m too scared. I’m so quiet now, he told me once that he never expected me to be so silent. That I’d been so chatty when we met. I answer him in my head: when I met you you weren’t a mass murdering psycho.

 

In reality I just apologise.

 

“Tssk, you don’t have to say sorry. This is hard for you, I knew it would be.”

 

I don’t ask him as I think he likes to pretend he planned this. That it wasn’t an impulsive move to keep me. An aberration. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his mistakes.

 

* * *

 

 

I was less scared at the beginning. I was angry and ferocious. I sometimes look back at that version of me with adoration and envy.

 

But I would have died if I kept it up. There was only so much Peter would have taken before I became too much of a risk. Too unlike the fantasy he had bought into. I’m living in the shadow of what he wants me to be. Trying my hardest to not live it out too perfectly.

 

Peter had to keep my bound a lot. Arms and legs. A gag in my mouth otherwise I’d just swear and curse at him.

 

He hurt me a lot, and manhandled me around, but barely touched me. He didn’t fuck me once. I was beginning to wonder if he had even fucked me that first night.

 

_I know now why he didn’t fuck me._

 

I got quieter after the first time he brought someone home.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

I’m in the single bedroom. I don’t think of it as my bedroom. I just sleep in here when Peter doesn’t want to touch me.

 

_When Peter doesn’t feel it’s safe to touch me._

 

I’m tied to the bed, a gag in my mouth, but I can hear someone.

 

This is the first time someone else has been in the house since I've been here. It's my chance. I need to get their attention. I need them to know I'm here. For my sake, for their sake.

 

I'm screaming through the gag, but there's music on in the next room.

 

My throat hurts but I keep screaming. Trying to get out of the restraints. I'm sweating. The sweat is rolling into my eyes and they sting. But I need to get out.

 

How long has it been? Why are they here? I need to get out.

 

It's just so tiring though. I take a break to cry hysterically. It's too cruel to be offered this taste of hope only for it to feel pointless.

 

I want to go home. I want to go home.

 

I want to speak to my dad, and hear from my friends.

 

I want to see someone's face that isn't Peter. Peter and his stupid smug grin, and violence in his veins.

 

I want to go home.

 

The music is switched off.

 

I start screaming again, trying to get their attention.

 

It's so quiet out there I can't hear anything, especially not over my own voice. But I keep trying to make a noise.

 

There's footsteps outside in the hall.

 

The bolt at the top of the door slides across and the door opens.

 

It's Peter.

 

Misery fills my stomach.

 

I want to cry.

 

I am crying.

 

He comes over to the bed and touches me carefully. I flinch away from the contact, but he moves me anyway. Using the sheet to wipe away my tears.

 

He pulls the gag out my mouth.

 

"HELP! GET HELP. GET OUT."

 

He pushes it back in.

 

"They can't hear you, you're wasting your breath."

 

I stare daggers at him, when he removes the gag I swear at him.

 

"Fuck you, you fucked up piece of-" he grabs my jaw.

 

" _Stiles..._ Tonight is _not_ the night to press my patience... I'm rather enjoying your face unbruised. Let's keep it that way."

 

I keep scowling at him, about to open my mouth to say something.

 

He hits me.

 

It's not the first time he has, but it hurts all the same. The open palm slap catches my ear as well as my cheek and the impact makes my ears ring.

 

It makes me cry.

 

"Shh, shh." He panders, undoing my wrist restraints so he can pull off my damp shirt. Peter secures them again a second later.

 

I feel small, and helpless.

 

Peter is so good at making me feel so useless, all my anger is broken, and it makes me more wilful.

 

"I hate you," I tell him. "I hate you. I hate you."

 

I haven’t begged since the first day.

 

_He hates it when they beg._

 

It's the easiest way to get hurt. He'll take nearly anything, even swearing, over begging.

 

I want to beg him to let me go now. While he's being pseudo kind. It's not worth it, I need to save my energy.

 

"I hate you. You bastard. Let me go, you _bastard._ "

 

He's relocating me to the livingroom, I keep swearing at him. Building my energy back up.

 

I go quiet when I see _him_.

 

The boy on the couch.

 

Small, smaller than me somehow.

 

Younger than me too, although it’s hard to tell. Maybe it's just because he's crumpled up on the couch.

 

I thought he was dead for a second, but he's breathing. Just unconscious.

 

I'm quiet.

 

"What does it look like Stiles?"

 

I jump and look at Peter, who still has a harsh grip on my arm.

 

"I don't-" I don't know what to say. It's all so strange, I hadn't expected any of this.

 

I decide to switch tracks, " _wake up!"_ I shout, trying to jolt forward to wake the boy.

 

Peter just sighs and drags me over to the hardback chair by the bookcase. A simple retie and I'm secured. He grabs a dishtowel and rips a strip from it, pushing it in my mouth for an adlibbed gag.

 

"I was hoping I could have kept you vocal for this. I wanted to hear what you had to say."

 

I didn't understand.

 

None of it made sense.

 

I didn't know what I was expecting to happen.

 

But it wasn't this.

 

How could I?

 

Why would I?

 

_I was quiet after that night._

 

* * *

 

I'm crying in my room.

 

Alone now.

 

I used to hate being alone when I was sad.

 

This wasn't sadness though. It was insanity.

 

_I'm never really alone now._

 

I can't get any of it out of my head. Images of it keep on assaulting my eyes. No matter where I look, no matter what I try to think of instead.

 

That kid, that tiny kid in there. Peter had ruined him.

 

I started being sick when Peter cut the boy's fingers off.

 

_How much blood has hit that wooden floor?_

 

Peter had walked over, pliers still in hand.

 

I was so scared, more scared then than ever before. I didn't think that was possible. Had I gotten used to it? Learnt my parameters? Maybe it was because Peter didn't hurt me when I was behaving. Maybe it was because he hadn't touched me.

 

_He was still holding the pliers._

 

Bloody hands pulled the gag out of my mouth, I was so scared I was going to taste it. There was blood on my cheek, I was sure of it.

 

"Are you going to be good, or do I need to put this back in?"

 

I didn't say anything.

 

I didn't say _anything_.

 

I didn't even tell him to stop.

 

My mouth was dumb.

 

My brain had switched to white noise.

 

I screamed when he put a knife in the boy's eye.

 

_Stop it. Stop thinking about it. Stop. Stop. Stop._

 

Peter had taken me away after that, I think I was a bit hysterical. He washed his hands, wiped down my cheek, and brought my back in here.

 

I'm crying in this room.

 

I don't know what's happening out there.

 

I don't even want to know.

 

I'm crying in this room

 

I want to go home.

 

* * *

  
  
  


I've fallen into a fitful sleep and woken up again twice already by the time I see him.

 

I'm in shock, I know that really. Intellectually. But that didn't help me.

 

My eyes dart across him, looking for traces of blood. Of violence. As he walks towards me I'm scared he has something in his hands.

 

_The pliers._

 

He murmurs to me gently. Checking my wrists as he unties the rope. I have deep dark bruises from where they have dug into me, he kisses them. Soft lips against sensitive skin. I can do nothing but stare at him like he has grown a second head.

 

My legs too are unbound, and a stupid little voice says: maybe he's going to let you go.

 

_Maybe he's going to kill you now._

 

I'm not fully stable on them as he pulls me up to stand, and I have to grip his arm to not fall. He helps me, my legs wobbling with every step out the room.

 

I turn left towards the door - _towards the boy_ \- but he's steering me right towards his bedroom.

 

I've been here before, it's not new.

 

But nothing makes sense.

 

_I'm still in shock. But nothing makes sense. I'm in shock because what happened doesn’t make sense._

 

We're in bed and he's so soft. I'm thinking of his burgundy jumper again, even though he's wearing a dark grey sweater.

 

_Is this how he sees himself? Is this what he wants to be? Is this what he wants me to see?_

 

He kisses me.

 

I don't move, I don't even close my eyes. I just stay still. Keep my breaths shallow. I don't even know if I can move.

 

Peter doesn't seem to mind. His kisses aren't particularly vigorous anyway. Gently, _soft._ He just keeps touching me in a way he's never done before. Even on our 'date'. I only realise how little he's touched me now he's caressing me.

 

I'm so scared he's going to kill me I'm not even particularly revolted by it.

 

I'm scared he'll fuck me. Rape me. Take me. Assault me. Hurt me. I'm trying to stop my head from going down that path. But surely that’s less awful than what he could be doing.

 

But I’m still scared.

 

Especially when he takes out his prick.

 

But he doesn't really touch me. Not _me_ anyway. He takes my hands and holds it to his dick. Jerking himself off with my cold hands between is large warms ones, and the silky hot texture of his erection.

 

I endure it. I almost don't notice it.

 

I can make sense of this act. I can endure this act.

 

I'm not going to survive him, I tell myself. He's going to kill me soon, probably as horribly as he did _that boy._

 

It doesn't matter how softly he kisses me. How much he touches my hair, my neck. How he whispers "you're so beautiful" against my lips as he cums. He's going to kill me.

  


* * *

 

 

_It turns out I was wrong, but dying might have been easier._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers (warnings)-
> 
> Manipulation, kidnap, fear, panic attacks. Description of seeing a dead body. Date rape, Stiles' drink is spiked.  
> Stiles is assaulted while under the influence (off screen). A knife is put in someone's eye, and fingers are removed (not stiles') 
> 
> \----
> 
> Well! It's been an experience returning to this universe.  
> Now I have the 'before' done I feel like maybe I can do some 'after'.  
> Does Stiles survive? Get out? Go over to the dark side? 
> 
> Please comment & kudos. It keeps writers writing (:
> 
> \-----
> 
> The recipe in this fic has been included in [my Peter Hale RP/fic rec blog](https://wolfitdown.tumblr.com/), where I write about Peter being a werewolf food blogger. Check it out for some fun food visuals, and send me a message there if you want your fic/a food fic recced there.


End file.
